


Written You Down

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3367619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac is badly injured during the barricades of 1830, and it shakes Enjolras to the core, a rare moment of anxiety and darkness entering his soul. Ever the leader he tries to hide his fear, not wanting to concern his friends after three days of fighting in the streets. Jehan, ever perceptive, comforts him and gives the light Enjolras embodies back to him, reminding him of the immortality of the cause they fight for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written You Down

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on tumblr ages ago and realized I'd never added it here! So finally I am. Written based on the Bastille song “Poet” and a drawing the lovely diminutive-fox sent me based on a prompt by ariadneslostthread.
> 
> “I have written you down/Now you will live forever/And all the world will read you/And you will live forever/In eyes not yet created/On tongues that are not born/I have written you down/Now you will live forever.” ~ Bastille

 A mixture of exhaustion, pain, muted terror, and worry bubble up in the center of Enjolras’ chest, nearly spewing forth in hot, liquid hysteria, but he swallows it back down and they burn down his throat, searing the skin.

Courfeyrac didn’t look hurt at first. 

 

Courfeyrac didn’t look hurt at all until he stumbled in the street as the eight of them walked to Joly’s rooms in the aftermath of the July Revolution, the taste of victory and hope on their tongues, mixing with the smoky aroma of gunpowder in the air. They all had a few scratches and bruises, some worse than others, and Joly insisted they all go to his rooms and get bandaged up before heading their separate ways to sleep for a few hours before meeting again at the Corinthe to keep abreast of the developments, of the provisional government being set up, of the potential abdication of King Charles.

But then suddenly Courfeyrac was on the ground, blood seeping through his jacket, his joyous laugh cut off abruptly by a shout of pain.

Enjolras had been the first to reach him, then Combeferre. Enjolras let Combeferre’s growing medical instinct take over, sliding his hand into Courfeyrac’s as Combeferre ripped open Courfeyrac’s jacket, revealing a wound underneath, scarlet soaking through the dark blue waistcoat and staining it black.

“You idiot, why didn’t you say something,” Combeferre murmured, obviously affectionate, but the worry was clear in his tone, in his gestures as he ran a soothing thumb across Courfeyrac’s cheek, attempting to soothe his distress.

Enjolras had seen countless men fall over the past three days, had watched blood run rivers through the streets. But this was different. This was Courfeyrac, one of his dearest friends, his brother in all the ways that mattered, the one who could inevitably make him smile, no matter his situation or mood.

A half hour later he sits, unable to truly help, battling the emotion threatening him and choking it back at every turn, focusing on Joly and Combeferre cleaning and examining Courfeyrac’s wound on the bed in front of him.  _I am the chief_ , he reminds himself.  _They need my strength right now._

“I’m sorry,” he hears Courfeyrac choke out, pain slicing into his tone. “It thought it was a barely anything, it didn’t hurt before, I swear I wasn’t being foolish Combeferre…”

“Shhh,” Combeferre says, very gentle. “It’s all right. You don’t need to apologize.”

“You called me an idiot,” Courfeyrac says, insistent, pointedly not looking down at the gash in his side.

“I was worried,” Combeferre assures him, brushing sweaty hair back from Courfeyrac’s head. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, I promise. Impulsive, but not an idiot. Enough talking now, it will sap your energy.”

“Sometimes knife wounds don’t get noticed or felt right away, especially in the rush of battle like that,” Joly says, carefully pouring out a measure of Laudanum, worried eyes flitting from Enjolras to Courfeyrac, but still focused entirely on the task at hand, pushing his own nerves away for his patient even as they brim ever so slightly in his expression. “Take this, all right my friend? It will help the pain while Combeferre and I tend to you. I think the wound was aggravated by your movement, by walking, and that’s why you fell and it bled so dramatically.” He smiles at Courfeyrac, who mirrors it, though it is a far cry from his usual grin.

Courfeyrac nods, hidden from view as Joly helps him swallow the medication down. Combeferre moves toward Enjolras, reading his anxiety through the silent twisting of his fingers, the marble façade that cracks further at every moment.

“Do we need to summon a doctor?” Enjolras asks, meeting Combeferre’s eyes as he approaches.

“The streets are still too chaotic,” Combeferre says, shaking his head. “I think Joly and I can handle this with our knowledge and supplies. If not, then I will go find a practicing doctor myself.”

Enjolras clears his throat, voice coming out steadier than he thought it might.

“Is he going to be all right?” he asks in a whisper. “Is there something I can do to assist either of you?”

“Yes, I believe he will be just fine,” Combeferre says, matching his tone. “He’ll be in some pain for a while, he’s weak from blood loss and it will need to heal. But not fatal, my friend. Not fatal.” Combeferre pauses, watching Enjolras exhale, watching his friend nod with more surety than he feels. “Why don’t you go out and sit with the others while Joly and I do our work? I promise I’ll let you know if anything changes. If there’s anything you can do.”

Enjolras starts to protest, but thinks better of it, trusting Combeferre as he always does.

“Yes,” he agrees, rising from his chair. “Whatever you think best. I defer to your expertise.”

Combeferre squeezes his hand and he moves to exit the room when Courfeyrac’s soft voice calls him back.

“Enjolras?” he asks. “Come here a moment?”

Enjolras obliges, squatting down next to the bed.

“Thank you for helping Bahorel carry me home,” Courfeyrac continues, voice weak as the medication and exhaustion set in.

“Of course,” Enjolras says. “Of course.” He leans down, kissing Courfeyrac on the forehead. “You listen to Combeferre and Joly, now,” he says, trying to sound stern, but failing, because this is Courfeyrac, and it is nearly impossible to be stern around him, even now.

“I will,” Courfeyrac says, brushing back a strand of Enjolras’ hair, trying to smile.

With one last glance at Combeferre and Joly, both of whom shoot him their own particular reassuring smile, Enjolras enters the main sitting room, where Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, and now Grantaire, who was not at the barricades, all sit, speaking in whispers. He looks at Grantaire, needing to focus on something, anything, other than the burgeoning cavalcade of anxiety trying to crash over him in waves.

“Did someone come retrieve you, Grantaire?” he asks. “It’s very good of you to come; I know the streets are wild right now.”

“Bossuet did,” Grantaire says, eyeing him with obvious concern, and Enjolras knows they must all look a fright from the fighting. “My rooms are quite near here. How’s Courfeyrac?”

All of his friends’ eyes land on him at Grantaire’s question, and Enjolras places his slightly trembling hands in his pockets.

“They believe he will be all right,” Enjolras says, voice firm, reassuring, steady, even to his own ears. “A serious wound, but not a fatal one. He’ll just need some time to heal.”

They all exhale simultaneously, and there is silence until Bossuet speaks up.

“I am sure he will revel in the lot of us helping look after him,” he says, a smile cracking onto his face, which is covered in smudges of dirt, much like the rest of them, the glint of exhilaration from the rebellion still in his eyes.

Enjolras smiles in return, feeling as if the very room relaxes around him even as his own muscles tense up. Coufeyrac is going to be fine, the rebellion looks very much as if it might be successful in several respects, and yet his heart still beats furiously in his chest. Where is the excitement of only an hour ago, the feeling of life pulsing through his blood?

“I’m going to step outside for just a moment,” he tells them. “Survey the area,” he offers as his reasoning.

Without further words he walks calmly to the door, closing it behind him before picking up his pace through the hallway and out the door, grateful the Joly’s rooms are located on the first floor. He sits down on the stoop, resting his chin in his hands and looking out at the city surrounding him. He’s only alone for about five minutes before he hears the door open behind him, someone sitting down next to him on the stairs.

Jehan.

“I take it you haven’t noticed,” Prouvaire says, voice soft as ever but still filled with his own specific kind of strength. “But your hands are a bit scratched up there. You’re bleeding.”

Enjolras looks down, eyes widening slightly as he sees the truth; tiny rivulets of blood ooze from several cuts on his hands and wrist, and he’s smeared it onto his chin without even noticing.

“Oh. So I am.”

“I brought some water and some bandages,” Jehan says, holding the items up. “May I?”

“I can…” Enjolras begins.

“I know you  _can_ , Enjolras,” the poet says, patient as he smiles, light brown eyes twinkling despite his exhaustion.

Enjolras smiles, and there are no more words needed as he offers his hands out to Jehan. A hiss escapes him as Jehan dips his hands into the water, which must also be filled with some kind of medication for cleaning wounds. But infections are easy to catch, and they cannot take too many precautions. It’s quiet between them for a few moments as Enjolras allows Jehan to wash his hands, the blood staining the water pink, allows his friend to dry them with a towel, utterly gentle.

“You may speak your mind you know,” Prouvaire says, looking up at him again as he unwinds the bandages.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says almost instantaneously.

“Hmmm,” Jehan says, clearly not convinced. “Your hands are shaking. They usually do, if you’re upset or angry, though you’re good at hiding it.”

Something about Jehan’s piercing expression, his sincerity, does not allow for much argument from Enjolras.

“Courfeyrac is going to heal,” Enjolras begins, watching as Jehan expertly winds the bandage around his first hand, noting the ever present ink stains on his friend’s fingers. “There was success in the rebellion, the people stood up, and I was nearly ecstatic. Yet the moment I saw Courfeyrac fall, saw his blood spill onto the street, I…I don’t know. We witnessed the spilling of a great deal of blood these past three days, and I hated seeing the loss of life, of our comrades, every time it pained me, but it did not shake me as badly as this has. But I know there will be more bloodshed if this victory does not hold, I know it is inevitable, an evil necessity of this old world we live in until the people truly have a voice, I cannot allow myself…”

“Enjolras,” Jehan says, stopping his work for a moment and tipping Enjolras’ face up, one slim hand resting under his chin. “Of  _course_ you can allow yourself. You are out of the heat of battle, there is no one to direct or protect, no threat of a bayonet in your chest or a bullet in your head. You are allowed your emotions. Your fears. You must know them in order to confront them, after all. ”

Enjolras remains silent as Jehan continues his work, allowing the fear, the worry, everything, to wash over him in silent waves of overwhelming feeling.

“Of course it is upsetting to see anyone fall, to see anyone die before your eyes, particularly the comrades who fight for our very same cause,” Jehan continues. “But it is only natural that seeing one of your dearest friends injured would shake you even more so. We are family, all of us. A family who marched into a very real battle and would do so again. There is a very real chance we will  _have_ to do so again. You don’t think about it daily, because you could not bear it, but you always see the larger picture, Enjolras, and you know the risks. Even if you would give your life nine times over to keep the other eight of us alive.”

“I would,” Enjolras says, feeling himself choking up. “Were it possible, I would. But I know I cannot. And that…that frightens me, though I know you are all ready and willing to risk your lives, that you know what you’re facing. You…all of you, you  _are_  the future we dream of.”

“So are you,” Prouvaire says, firm, a tone with which Enjolras is not to argue. “You see the world as it could be, Enjolras, and that is something that will always be needed. You inspire people with your words, inspire people to fight for a better world, to fight for themselves and their freedom against tyranny. You never know who might listen to you and be compelled to join us or any of the other groups around the city. Your words, both spoken and written, are the light of our cause, the fire illuminating the darkness. You inspire all of us. You inspire me.”

“Jehan,” Enjolras protests. He knows, he is talented with words, knows he is charming and that people listen to him, that he can inspire others, but his friends, their belief, is the strength behind every syllable. He wants to do  _more_ , incite changer  _faster_ , and it frustrates him, sometimes, that he is but one man, even if one man is still capable of much. The more people fighting for something, the better, so he keeps writing, keeps speaking, keeps pushing.

“No arguments,” Jehan insists, tying a knot as he finishes bandaging Enjolras’ wrist. He does not, however, let go of Enjolras’ hands, proceeding to take both in his own. The red of the blood seeping through the bandages melds with the black of the ink on Jehan’s skin.

Enjolras squeezes Jehan’s fingers in response, and for a moment, they are silent.

“I keep a notebook you know,” Prouvaire begins.

“A great many, I should hope,” Enjolras says. “Your poetry is something to be written down. To be remembered.”

“But there is one notebook in particular,” Jehan says, smiling widely now. “Filled with poems I’ve written about all of you, filled with snatches of your orations I’ve jotted down, filled with sketches from Feuilly and Grantaire, notes scribbled by Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel, ideas of Combeferre’s, flashes of his brilliance that he needs to write down before it flies out of his mind. It is all of you, living on those sheets of papers, never to be forgotten.”

Enjolras blinks away the wetness gathering around his eyes, meeting Jehan’s as he continues, almost imploring him.

“You will all live forever on those pages,” Jehan says, squeezing Enjolras’ hands again. “Just as your words touching other people will live on as the ideas you speak of spread, Enjolras. Just as all of our actions, all our bravery and fighting and daily efforts, live on in those who come after us. For even if we fall one day, we will inspire the generation after us, just as those before us inspired our beliefs. Our pledge to never give up, even in the face of tyranny. Our bodies die, but we live on, don’t we, through everything we do, everyone we’ve touched, even if we don’t know it? Those things live forever, intangible but solid as anything physical.”

Enjolras nods, overcome for a moment as a few stray tears leak forth, his heart nearly bursting with the feeling behind Jehan’s words, the outburst feeling in his own soul, breaking through the unusual doubt and filling him with light.

“Our ideals live on beyond us,” Enjolras agrees. “Every revolution, every sacrifice made, every hint of human progress, is a step forward to the world we dream of. You are wise, my friend. Wiser than most anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Hmm,” Jehan says again, resting his forehead against Enjolras’ now, and Enjolras’ racing heart slows at the contact, his hands still resting in Jehan’s warm ones. Jehan waits for a moment before speaking again. “I know you are the leader. I know there are things expected of you, that you must compartmentalize your emotions at times, must show the strength that resides in every inch of you. But your compassion, your emotions, those are a powerful part of you, too. A central part of what drives your logic, your belief in the divine right of man ruling over himself, of revolution. You need not fear giving into them around us in moments of quiet, as I’m certain Combeferre has told you before. It’s not weakness: it’s strength. Because though we are your lieutenants, we are first your friends.”

Jehan smiles, the light reaching his eyes, and Enjolras cannot help but return it.

“Yes you are. And I shall keep that in mind,” he replies. “I promise. And thank you. For knowing me so well, for your words.”

“Our words bond us, don’t they?” Jehan asks. “Spoken and written. Speeches and pamphlets and poetry.”

“They do indeed,” Enjolras responds, feeling his heart lift, feeling the exhilaration return at the spark in Jehan’s eyes.

 He watches as the wind flutters through Jehan’s loose, reddish blond hair. The winds of change, perhaps. The winds of revolution.

The winds of hope. 


End file.
